


Perchance to Dream

by Rantipo1e



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, BDSM, Caught in the Act, Dream Sex, Harry does what he really wants, Imaginary Violence - in a dream, M/M, Mindfuck, Post-Series, Snape in character, Snape is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-26
Updated: 2005-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rantipo1e/pseuds/Rantipo1e
Summary: “He wished with all his heart for something he could not name, for something that he could not see, only feel. It was there, perfectly formed, and all he had to do was reach out and touch it.”Harry hears a rumour that Snape is back, and drops everything to chase it. But Harry has been having strange dreams, and to reach Snape, he has to face his own nightmares.After HBP I thought, what if Snape dies? What could Harry actually do?





	Perchance to Dream

Harry knew it was a dream because of the light.

The room was filled with it, a dim green glow that soaked the air and everything it touched. He could feel it. And somehow the light created the stillness. Nothing moved.

But he could not look away from the bed. In his dream, he knew the feel of its heavy turned posts, the tasseled silken fringe, the rich, voluminous swags of drapery drawn aside in expensive disarray. He knew how they trailed on the floor under his feet.

The sheets were caught up in a lustrous tangle, the flesh against them round, perfect, pale and oddly shadowed, the face turned into the pillow. Everything shone with a green humid glow. And it was quiet, because the sounds of the air are muffled underwater; quiet, everything stilled, enchanted. He looked closer and saw that the sheets were red -- dark where the green light hit them but red in the shadows.

He felt himself sinking into it, the liquid silk of the sheets tightening around his arms and legs. And in sudden terror, he saw what should have been obvious from the beginning. He recognized himself.

He felt himself drowning, the sheets wrapping around him; and someone was there, watching him drown but doing nothing, only watching. He felt eyes on his back, his thighs, the palm of his upturned hand. And that attention saw everything, saw things he could not see himself, saw the surge of heat that flooded his cock, made him drive his hips against the bed. With a pure surge of panic, he tried to break free. 

And the dream ended.

Harry opened his eyes to a wave of emptiness, a longing so fierce that he couldn't breathe for a moment. 

Then he rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow, wishing with all his heart for something he could not name, wishing for something that he could not see, only feel. It was there, perfectly formed, and all he had to do was reach out and touch it.

He felt something happen in his chest.

For a moment it was as if anything were possible. 

He felt the world around him shift subtly.

Something had had happened; something had changed. He lay still, not knowing, craving and fearing what he had done.

~

He stared out the window at the gray light of the morning.

He sat at the place of honor at the head of the table, but the business of the meeting conducted itself quite easily without him. The room was littered with tea and coffee cups, the street outside with oblivious pedestrians, industrious and busy. He wanted that enchanted stillness again.

He stirred his tea. 

Savior of the wizarding world. He smiled at himself. Most powerful wizard of the age, and what was he doing? Staring out of windows like a schoolchild. But the world was safe, and it left him feeling empty, open to the slow green-lit dream that threatened to swallow him.

"It's Snape."

His head jerked up. 

Hermione was speaking. "I think it's Snape."

And he felt it like a plunge into cold water. He felt the air moving in the room, saw the details of his friends' faces, the noises outside on the street suddenly much louder. He heard what the minister had been saying, that they had had to evacuate Hogwarts, that no one had been able to get near it, that several aurors had disappeared and were now presumed lost. And he felt the rush of excitement, the need; there was something he must do. After so long without any desire, it was dizzying.

"I'll go," he said. And when they objected, he said "No."

"I want to."

They insisted on giving him a portkey, a medal that hung on a chain around his neck, to bring him back "Just in case." 

But he didn't protest, just took it, smiling, saying "What's this, Saint Christopher?"

When Ron ducked his head and Hermione looked embarrassed, he took a closer look at it. It was an image of himself.

Ron shrugged, shook his head. "It was the quickest thing we could come up with. They're all over the place, now."

Saint Harry. He had to get out of here.

~

They said the forbidden forest was growing, spreading. But in the fog, it was beautiful.

Lights danced in the mist. Hinkypunks. Must be a bog.

He said hello to a lovely red and yellow and black banded snake.

Snape. Bastard. For making it impossible to approach the castle in any way but on foot.

But he didn't have time to think. And he was moving easily, focused, using his eyes and his nose and his ears. God, it felt good. A tree tried to reach for him with its branches, but he evaded, slipping aside, too small and fleeting to interest it.

Then a trail of small spiders marched out of the intangible white wall in front of him.

And he stopped. He knew what was coming.

One leg appeared, reaching out of the fog slowly, tentatively, pausing, feeling his presence. 

Harry was frozen, entranced. The shining black hairs were as long as his finger, and covered with tiny drops of dew, glistening.

The delicate joint was several feet above his head.

The claw on the ground was bigger than his hand. 

Then lightning-quick, three more legs and the body appeared, so close now, eyes glinting. He felt his heart stop beating. 

But without thinking, he hissed at it in parseltongue, spitting the most vicious words he knew, threats, curses, as if he wanted to kill it, rip it limb from limb, tear its body from its legs; as if he were a basilisk, confusing it. He danced with it, so close, eluding the claws, the eyes, the sting. And just when he was nearly exhausted, he finally reached the tree, hauling himself up from branch to branch, scrambling frantically, using the last of his strength to go high, high, all the way to the top. Then he collapsed over a limb, letting his arms and legs hang, his cheek against the bark. He looked down into the mist and listened to its fury.

He smiled at it, at Snape, at himself. Look at the great hero now: trying to fight when he couldn't use his magic.

Spiders climbed up after him, hung from the branches around, just like the spiders in his cupboard. They rose and fell on their sliver threads, spinning slowly, glinting in the twilight. 

After a long time, he sat up. And he tied himself to the trunk with a rope, because he knew, above all, that he could not afford to fall out of the tree.

From this height, above the fog, he thought he could see Gryffindor tower. 

It was completely covered in vines.

~

His eyes were closed, and he was in that bed again; he recognized it, the silken sheets sucking him down. Smooth liquid softness twisted around his hands and feet, coming up around his arms and legs. He moved to push it off, because it should come off easily, but somehow it didn't. 

He could only move slowly, as in deep water, but he pulled against it, turning first one way, then the other. The slickness twisted around him like seaweed, sliding against his skin but only tighter, tighter, and he was panting for air. 

Then he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't, and rising panic made his throat full and tight, his heart pound in his chest, in his ears, his hands shaking and clumsy. He could do nothing with his scrabbling fingers. 

And the thing in his throat broke open and he shouted as loud as he could, cursing, but there was something in his mouth, soft, deadening all noise. Furious now, he abandoned himself completely to the struggle, fighting and writhing with his whole body, screaming silently, and never did the bonds slacken in the least. They held him just as they had at the beginning. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face, his muscles trembling, and he could do nothing.

Fingers stroked his cock. 

And he was hard in that hand, in that moment, full of need for something, wishing, feeling it pour out of him somehow.

And in that moment, he welcomed it.

Even though he knew it was Snape, and feared that Snape was sucking away his soul.

~

Harry was going to get through these vines if it killed him. And maybe it would, but right now, he just didn't care.

They grew back almost as fast as he could cut them down. But he was gaining ground, moving slowly deeper into the mess of tangled green leaves, getting a little closer to the castle with each swing of the axe.

He felt it in his arms, in his back, throwing his entire body behind the weight of it, catching it as it rebounded, swinging it around again. And he grunted with each swing, muttering as the axe sank in and the vines fell before him, curses he could never say anywhere but here. Because here his magic had no effect; here they were just words, and he could yell them out loud if he wanted to:

Crucio.

Fuck.

Avada (he gasped)

Kedavra!

And he felt the blade bite deep into the woody stems, watching the sap run like blood.

Damn Snape.

For making him do this;

for being so selfish; 

taking Hogwarts as if he owned it,

like some pureblood lord;

which he wasn't.

God Damn him!

Bastard.

Bloody Bastard! (and his voice rang in his ears)

for Never telling --

Anyone --

anything.

And now he couldn't breathe, could hardly see. He had to stop and wipe his eyes.

But he could feel himself tiring, his arms shaking when he lifted the axe, the handle slick with something. And he could see that he was slowing, that the vines were beginning to grow back faster than he could cut them. The trunks were as thick as trees. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw only a green tunnel. 

It was full of dim green light, the light that filtered through the leaves. It was the light from his dream.

And understanding swept over him in a wave. He knew then that this was exactly what had happened to the other aurors; not the forbidden forest, but this, the hedge; that they had gotten halfway through and fallen when they tired, swallowed up inside this sea of vines. He staggered where he stood. He fell against one of the trunks, into the mess of severed limbs and sticky sap. A tendril curled around his arm and he yanked free, stumbling and almost falling. But another one was already twining around his ankle. Utterly exhausted, he just watched it, bemused. It moved slowly up his leg, around his knee, inexorable. 

Then a vine took his other foot and wave of panic drowned him and from somewhere he found the strength to fight. But he knew it was useless and he was wild, frantic and beyond reason, because they were going to strangle him and he was going to die here, and they had told him, warned him, and he was such a fool, because now he would never reach the castle, never see. Never again.

And he realized that he had fallen back into the dream. 

He let his eyes stay closed, because he was so tired, and because it seemed there was no reason to try. If he couldn't reach the castle, he would rather just stay in the dream.

Then there was a loud crack and he couldn't breathe. 

A sudden violent agony bloomed in his side, along his ribs. He opened his mouth but no sound came out because there was no breath behind it. His lungs were paralyzed. His body curled around itself, naked, like a snail taken out of its shell.

But inside the freezing pain it occurred to him that this might be necessary, that it could be what he needed to do, that if he could just endure this, then he might still get inside, might still find -- And with that thought he felt a trickle of warmth flow into his chest, and he could breathe again.

But then the next blow came, along his ribs on the other side, inevitably. And then down his back, on either side, even to his buttocks, methodical, never breaking rhythm. And God, this was ridiculous, but he set himself to endure, exerting all his will, gritting his teeth and hearing his voice choke in his throat, knowing for certain now that if he could just get through this -- 

A burst of agony licked between his buttocks right to the quick of him and he screamed.

Fingers touched his mouth, tracing, shaping his lips. He felt the air whistling past them as he panted, crying.

And Snape was really there. He knew it was Snape, clung to that idea like a drowning man, hanging on that touch, his lower body full of bright pain that made him unable to move, one finger now on his lower lip right at the center, and he could think only, Please.

Then that finger moved to his cock, and though there was still agony through to the core of him, he felt himself yearn toward it, felt it stroke him delicately, one finger, sending him immediately into helpless rut, his cock hot and filling, the surge of need making his knees buckle again. And when that finger moved to trace along his groin, his hip bone, curling around to find the crease under his buttock, he fell slowly forward.

He could already feel where the next blow would land, in the tender crease where his buttocks met his thighs.

And in that moment it seemed he understood.

~

He woke lying on the ground, green vines arching all around him, still feeling the deep and unthinking certainty, and wanting it more than anything he had ever wanted.

He felt something happen in his chest.

He felt the world around him shift subtly.

And in thoughtless wonderment he watched the vines curl away from him, opening a tunnel to the wall of the castle, which was really not that far away at all. There was a door open in the wall, and behind it was darkness.

~

He practically ran into the dark; eager, grateful. His chest felt full, and he had fallen into a lush madness where he longed for only one thing in the world. His feet pounded the flagstones, his hand skimmed over the roughness of the walls, and the fingers of the other stretched out, tasting the air in front of him. He turned a corner and he slowed because he still couldn't see and he had no idea where he was or where he was going.

He walked right into a door frame. He cursed. 

And then he laughed helplessly, collapsing against it. His back was on fire and he was still hard, and he clutched himself through his pants, still laughing. He was such a fool. And what did Snape want with the vines anyway? Jungle Adventures of Tarzan? Where did he come up with these things? If he was trying to make Harry look like an idiot, well then he was succeeding.

But the quiet of the dungeons seeped into him and eventually he fell still. 

It was utterly dark and silent; empty. Nothing moved. Not the bloody baron, not Nearly Headless Nick, not the one he wanted. If he was even looking for a ghost. Which he thought he was, but maybe Snape was something else, something - he shook his head. 

He had no idea. Snape would be - Harry couldn't imagine. But he could almost feel it.

It was so dark that he couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed. And he moved forward again, carefully this time, because he didn't know anything, but he had to try. And maybe Snape would be something he could see. He had no idea what Snape was up to, but dear Merlin he hoped he could see him again.

He felt a breath of air on his face. 

There was a stairway ahead of him, unreal and unearthly in the dim light trickling down from above.

~

He opened the door and knew that he had found it. The room of his dreams was the dormitory in Gryffindor tower. And the green light came from the leaves covering the windows - they shone with it, their veins a delicate tracery. And his old bed was all by itself; the others had all disappeared somewhere. As he looked, the red sheets were changing, becoming lustrous.

He felt the slow tide pulling him. He wanted to fall right into that bed, because he was tired and his back was on fire and perhaps this time he would see Snape. He took off his shirt.

"Do you imagine that I want you here?"

His head whipped around. 

And there he was, sitting in an armchair before the fire reading a book, mundane and tangible, like a rock in the midst of this sea of uncertainty.

Harry was so glad to see him that he smiled.

Snape scowled and went back to reading his book.

And Harry couldn't help it - he laughed out loud, short and low and sweet.

"Your clothes are filthy and your manners are atrocious as ever. Sit down, Mr. Potter."

But he just stood looking at Snape in a kind of marveling surprise. He realized that he had begun to forget what Snape looked like. His hair really was as greasy as Harry remembered. He had forgotten how awkward that nose was in that face.

Then he moved across the room and sat on the floor next to Snape's chair. Snape could hardly fault him, since there were no other chairs. But he sat with one foot under himself because his arse was sore.

He stared into the fire and listened to the logs pop and hiss.

He was so tired, and he was finally here, and he didn't really care what happened now as long as he could stay. He leaned against the side of Snape's armchair because it was the only thing to lean on.

And he could see Snape's shoes, so real, the soles worn down unevenly, and he wondered if he touched one, would his hand go right through it?

He heard Snape turn a page in a dry rustle of paper and he wished with all his heart that this was real.

Something was making his throat tight.

He heard Snape close his book.

He felt the chair shift with a small creak as Snape settled his weight on the back of it.

"You have come to kill me? Save the world yet again?"

And Harry shook his head violently, burying his face against the arm of the chair.

"Or do you imagine that you have come here to rescue me?"

In the silence, Harry raised his head, and there it was right before him again. He was afraid to breathe. How beautiful the eyes, that gaze that wanted to devour him.

"You have no idea what I am, do you; no idea at all. I am not dead, and not alive. You have come all the way here, and you still have no _idea_." And Snape's voice was rising around him, beating at his ears. "You just go plunging right into the middle of this mess, into an enormously powerful enchantment that has killed nine aurors, and fully qualified experts, mind you, not untrained amateurs like yourself who rely on luck, pure talent and sheer _recklessness_ to get them out of the catastrophes they cause through their _own idiocy_."

And Snape pronounced each word very clearly as if to communicate his meaning to a small child or a dumb animal. "You have persuaded yourself that this was _my_ idea, haven't you?" 

" _You_ have done this. You have done this to _me_."

"You created this, boy. You brought me here. You wanted this. You dreamed it into existence."

And Harry reeled, but Snape's finger under his ear caught him, held him.

"All of this has happened because you wanted it. Everything."

And Snape pinched the welts on his shoulder carefully, drew a fingernail along the ones on his back. Harry jumped, gasped, because he could feel those eyes moving over his skin, following the path of the fingers, and Snape was touching him. Snape was real. Snape had. Had he?

And those eyes snapped back to his face, reading his thought, holding him again. That mouth quirked. "I thought the vines were a bit much, even for you."

Harry writhed in embarrassment, feeling an utter fool, knowing that Snape had seen each moment of his most ridiculous - 

But then he felt a finger trace over his hot cheek. 

He realized that Snape was enjoying this.

Well of course he was. Some things never changed. 

And a bubble of sheer joy in his chest made him smile. And he wanted to give Snape something; the sudden desire almost overwhelmed him. Because no one had ever given Snape anything -- not freely. He wondered if this gift of his was free. He hoped it was. He hoped Snape wanted it.

So he just opened his mouth, his mind, and spoke without thinking. 

"Are you real?" he heard himself whisper, and it was his most secret fear. "Am I just imagining you?" 

And somehow he could _feel_ Snape's voice now. "You brought me here." It resonated in his ear and in his wide open mind. "You brought me here; but I am quite beyond your control."

And his lips moved. "Yes." He found himself saying yes, and saying it made his heart jerk in panic, but he refused to start thinking again, because felt the certainty coming back. "Yes."

~

And he was in that bed again, the sheets swallowing him up, and Snape was there, touching his face, whispering to him. "Tell me."

So he did. He told Snape everything that came into his mind, ridiculous fantasies he had had for years, years, things he thought he had forgotten about, oh, God that time he had imagined that Snape could see him in the shower. That time he had. Under the desk.

"Tell me."

So he did, because it felt so good to feel his mouth shape those words, his lips and tongue touching them, and Snape watching, impassive but for his eyes; Snape stroking him, with his fingernails, one hand, the other, not letting him come, and questioning him; Snape speaking tenderly, that finger opening him slowly, slowly, Snape speaking tenderly but his words sharp, flaying him wide open.

He told Snape everything, listening to himself speak but not remembering what he said the moment after he said it. And there were long pauses where all he could do was feel, lying on his belly now and trying not to grind his cock into the bed, waiting, hoping but waiting, that finger sliding just a little farther inside and then withdrawing, no, please, fuck, God, please, again, please, need you, need you inside me when I come. 

It felt so good to beg, and he was flying, flying, his body moving entirely by itself. "Harry." Someone had hold of his shoulder and was shaking him, "Harry."

He opened his eyes.

~

He saw Hermione. He scrabbled desperately for the sheets slipping between his fingers, finally an edge, there, yanked it up as he flipped onto his back. A burst of pain went through him and he groaned, rolling over onto his belly again. 

Hermione looked shocked. Then she turned to Ron.

He looked down at himself and saw welts, bruises, the marks of his pleasure clearly displayed, his body naked against the silken sheets. It was the scene of his first dream made horribly real, not fuzzy-edged but real and solid now, visible to his friends as no dream should ever be, all the evidence revealed to them, clear and unvarnished, showing exactly what he wanted.

He realized just what he had become.

And he felt himself flush, his face burning to the roots of his hair and down his throat. He could say nothing. Ron blinked and looked away.

But Hermione was speaking, realizing instantly what was holding him here, her voice gentle and full of understanding and love. And he felt his deep affection for both of them, his desire to go with them, felt it stretching out thin, like a tie about to snap, felt Hermione pulling on it; because she was right. She was always right.

He looked toward the fireplace, the armchair, expecting somehow to see Snape. But Snape was nowhere in sight. He existed only in the dream.

And replacing the shame, there was sudden panic, that he could lose everything: this bed, this room, this light. He felt the gray dullness of reality closing in on him again. Desperate, he looked to Ron. 

Didn't the world owe him something? Couldn't they let him have this? 

His heart beat. He knew what he wanted. 

He could just take it.

Ron raised an eyebrow. 

And Harry grinned in reckless delight: Ron understood, he was sure. Hermione would, too; she was just trying to do what was right. But he wasn't. Not anymore.

Almost falling out of bed, he rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor, the sheets slipping away from him, but he didn't care, not now. He sat up and tossed Ron the medal. Ron reached out to catch it, to close his hand around Harry's image and take it home with him. Hermione, too late, reached up to catch his arm.

And they disappeared.

~

He stared at the empty space where they had been.

He looked around the bed that surrounded him, the voluminous swags, the sheets tangled around his legs. Then he turned and buried his face in the pillow. He moved experimentally, slowly, the sheets alive against his chest, his belly, his cock still hard. 

Would he always be hard? He thought he probably would.

And the thought made him so desperate that he had to roll over on his back, his thighs shaking, the welts on his buttocks stinging. He pounded the mattress with his fists. God, this was going to be good.

The leaves made a beautiful pattern against the window, their soft green glow filling the air. Somewhere a fly buzzed. After a long time, he rolled over on his belly again. He wanted to go back to sleep.

He wondered what kind of dreams Snape had.

And he felt himself smile. He had an idea. He felt the rush of excitement again, the need; there was something he must do. 

So he closed his eyes. And he felt himself sink down into the sheets, felt the dream come up around him.

He felt something happen in his chest.

He felt the world around him shift subtly.

It was as if anything were possible. 

And he lay in the dim green light of the enchanted room, his existence slow, disjointed, eternal in the manner of dreams, and Snape always there. He lay with a small secret smile on his face, his flesh bruised but perfect, unchanging, enfolded in the silken sheets, under the draped canopy of the princely bed, in the highest tower of the castle in the heart of the forbidden forest.

 

 

("…what dreams may come,  
When we have shuffl'd off this mortal coil,  
Must give us pause …"  
\-- And the title is for reddwarfer, because she likes Shakespeare.)

**Author's Note:**

> Harry starts out thinking he has to struggle to achieve his dream, but all he really has to do is keep his mind on what he wants, and things work themselves out in unexpected ways :)
> 
> What if Harry dreamed of Snape? He might cast a spell in his dreams without realizing it. Like all heroes, Harry works best without a plan; he would have been wasted as an administrator - who knows what he'll accomplish now? ;)
> 
> This one is for snapesdarkling, who was running a comm for post-series fic, and for reddwarfer - who wanted to see Harry caught in _flagrante delicto_ :) Eternal love to anmkosk , luckybrans and cordelia_v for beta and hand-holding. And thank you to the lovely people who have left kudos! You make me happy like a bouquet of roses. I'm so glad you enjoyed it  <3


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